


In Narnia

by orphan_account



Series: Summer Pornathon '14 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, POV Outsider, Summer Pornathon 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is so far in the closet he's in Narnia. Agravaine, forceful advocate and unwavering believer of Arthur’s heterosexuality, is now converted. Arthur is so fucking gay rainbows pale in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Narnia

**Author's Note:**

> For the pthon challenge 1: Sexpistolary (prompts from texts from last night, other texting, etc.). I chose this one: "(202): He's so far in the closet he's in Narnia." Poor Agravaine. 
> 
> This entry (like all others) is the initial, i.e. longer, version, not the 750-max-words of summerpornathon.

 

[ ](http://textsfromcamelot.tumblr.com/post/31219843926)

 

“I owe Olaf a favour. Could you convince Arthur to take his daughter Vivian out on a date?”

Uther stares at him before breaking out into laughter. Agravaine almost has a stroke.

“Oh, that’s just...” Uther hiccups, and Agravaine twitches. Dear Lord. Uther Pendragon showing emotion. It’s a sight so disturbing it equals the apocalypse; the end is here now. Agravaine is certain of it.

“So, is that a yes?” he asks, always stoic in the face of adversity. “Because then—”

“No.” Uther is shaking his head, a funny smile on his face. “No, Agravaine. I’m afraid not.”

“But why—”

“You’ll see. Just keep your eyes open.” Uther laughs again, but this time it sounds a little desperate, a little strained. “Or keep them closed. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose; you’ll see anyway.”

He waves Agravaine away, and Agravaine leaves, confused.

\--

Monday morning, he gets his first hint. Arthur is chasing a dark-haired, slim man down the corridor.

“ _Mer_ lin!” he bellows, eyes on the boy, zero focus for anything else. “I _told_ you to come back _instantly_ —”

“Gwen needed help!” the boy splutters. “Lance called—”

“I don’t care if you fancy yourself the redeemer of love-sick souls, you are to answer to me immediately—”

“You’re my boss, not my slave-driver, you prat!”

There’s some more bickering and Arthur putting the boy in a headlock that Agravaine watches worriedly, before Arthur seems to realise that his uncle is actually there. He straightens, flushing, lets the boy out of the headlock (reluctantly, if the way his eye twitches is any indication).

“Uncle, this is Merlin, my PA,” he says calmly. The boy, Merlin, squints at Agravaine and has the guts to say, “Mr de Bois, this is the prat, your nephew,” and to add a cheeky, “My apologies for that, by the way.”

Before Agravaine can do so much as answer (he does manage to blink twice, bewildered), Arthur calls Merlin a clotpole, Merlin stomps on his foot, Arthur threatens him with a slap, Merlin runs off—

and Arthur runs right after him.

Agravaine stares after them, and tries to figure out when his twenty-five year old nephew has reverted back to the age of six. Hell. Even at six, Arthur hadn’t been like that.

Later Morgana catches him googling ‘is emotional instability hereditary’ and takes pity on him. She pats his hand, and says, smiling, “Yes, they’re always like that. It would actually be cute if Arthur wasn’t so far in the closet he’s in Narnia, you know?”

\--

She’s _right_. Agravaine, forceful advocate and unwavering believer of Arthur’s heterosexuality, is now converted. There is no way to remain ignorant to the ridiculous amount of the boys’ bickering and constant flirting even if he were blind, wore an additional eight sunglasses and managed to stick three foam earplugs into his ears at once. The worst of it is that Arthur doesn’t even _realise_ he’s doing it. Agravaine is witness to all these situations with increasing horror and crippling second-hand shame:

\- “I don’t even know why I remember the day I met you.” / “It was the first time your prattish arse got its ego bruised for real. That’s quite a memorable occasion.” / “Shut up, _Mer_ lin.” / “Make me, _Ar_ thur.” / “Oh, you wish.” / “So what if I did?”  
(A scowl and a slap to the back of the head is apparently a suitable reply. Agravaine rolls his eyes.)

\- “Face it, you liberal wimp. There’s not much money can’t buy.” / “Your modesty, it slays me.” / “You know you like it, _Mer_ lin.” / “Oh, there sure is a lot I like...”  
(Arthur is clueless; Merlin leaves disappointed. Agravaine shares a look with Uther that says: _not my nephew; your son_.)

\- “Why are you walking with a limp, Merlin?” / “Jealous?” / “Of you? Why would I possibly be jealous of you?”  
(Merlin mutters an exasperated, “Oh my God,” and Agravaine, mentally agreeing, facepalms.)

\--

It goes on and on. Day in, day out. Morgana’s words stick with him: he sees Arthur just behind the door still in Narnia, and Merlin waiting for him on the other side. Arthur is so far in the bloody closet it’s a wonder his _heterosexuality_ hasn’t landed him in Middle-earth yet. Just thinking of the word in combination with ‘Arthur’ makes Agravaine want to break out laughing hysterically. He understands Uther now. It makes Agravaine almost feel sorry for Merlin, which is obscene on several accounts but mostly because Agravaine doesn’t _do_ feelings.

Well. Agravaine does _one_ feeling: aggravation. Three months and fourteen days into his employment at Dragon’s Pen, he walks into the office like a man on a mission. If Arthur isn’t going to get his shit together today, Agravaine will find himself forced to write a heartfelt letter to Merlin, which would warrant Arthur’s lawful murder, he is sure, because, again, he doesn’t do feelings. Then he’ll also have to bake a rainbow cake they’ll all eat at the funeral banquet around Arthur’s grave that he’ll have adorned with unicorn stickers.

Or Uther will simply find a resignation letter on his desk. And perhaps a couple dead people in the corridor. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. That aggravation is really wearing on his nerves...

Thus, when he rounds the corridor, it is with impossible relief that he watches the following scene:

Arthur crowding Merlin against the wall, leaning in with his palms on either side of Merlin’s head.

“You won’t even laugh at my jokes anymore,” he’s complaining like the old fishwife he really is, and Agravaine makes a sound that is sheer disbelief.

Merlin remains impassive.

“I haven’t seen you smile these past three days,” Arthur continues, low and worried, and Agravaine wants to cry, because, really? Really?

Even his parents were less disgustingly sappy than _that_.

Merlin’s head snaps up. He looks at Arthur, wide-eyed. Agravaine holds his breath, and watches Merlin say, disbelieving, “You—you were counting the days?”

Agravaine wants to yell through the entire building that Arthur is so fucking gay for Merlin that rainbows pale in comparison, but Merlin does the job for him.

When Arthur nods, Merlin pulls him into a hungry kiss, easy as that. Agravaine thinks _fucking finally_ , and Arthur, not so stupid after all, drags Merlin into a supply closet conveniently located to their left.

 _A closet, yes, but not in Narnia anymore. Probably in Merlin, soon,_ , Agravaine tells himself stupidly before deciding that shooting himself sounds like a very good idea.

Not before he hasn’t baked that rainbow cake, though. He has an appointment with Uther tonight at dinner to mutually bemoan their genetics.

From the closet, there are incriminating, unambiguous noises.

Well, Agravaine thinks. Maybe they won’t need to, anymore.

And then he runs away as fast as he can.


End file.
